


Slow Descent

by Ellosene



Series: Falling Metaphorically [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Exhibitionism, Fun mentions of the zygerrian arc and order 66, Group Sex, M/M, Mind Break, Mind Manipulation, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Slow Mind Break, There are other ships and characters but they’re only in it for a line or two so, Verbal Humiliation, if that’s a tag?, listen this is weird and horny okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22565914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellosene/pseuds/Ellosene
Summary: It starts with wicked little thoughts.They aren’t too different from what he’s had before. He doesn’t even notice the change. He’s so tired, so exhausted.He could do with a good hard fuck.
Relationships: 212th Attack Battalion/Obi-Wan Kenobi, CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi/CT-7567 | Rex, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Other(s)
Series: Falling Metaphorically [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1732234
Comments: 21
Kudos: 329





	Slow Descent

**Author's Note:**

> This has been haunting me and as far as I can tell no one else has wrote it so I guess I have to? I’ve never even written anything like this before.
> 
> Please enjoy Obi-Wan’s descent into hormones. Explanation for it at the end.

It starts with wicked little thoughts.

They aren’t too different from what he’s had before. He doesn’t even notice the change. He’s so tired, so exhausted. 

_ He could do with a good hard fuck._

He could. He’s never been one to shy away from those particular desires, they’ve helped him many times with negotiations and the like, and sometimes it’s just nice, to let go, to stop thinking for a minute or two beneath the rush of endorphins and heat. 

They’re in the middle of a battle though, just in a lull for now, bedded down in tents crowded full and trying to grasp snatches of sleep before it all starts again. He closes his eyes and tries to do the same.

He dreams of warm war-battered hands clutching his thighs, spreading him wide. 

_ They’re all so big. _

They are. The 212th is on Kamino for a few weeks, a little on edge as they wait to see if the information about a Separatist assault was true or just another rumor. The Kaminoans are kind, allowing the soldiers use of the facilities, letting them watch the training of the younger generations. They wander, for the most part, still in their armor, but a few take to just their blacks and it’s...revealing. He finds his eyes drifting more than once.

It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, the clones are nothing if not uncaring about their own nudity, but he finds himself wondering how many people Jango Fett must have made very happy, once upon a time. 

He thinks about it late one night as he lets himself, pushes his face into his bed and buries three fingers inside, whimpering and whining and thrusting uselessly against his sheets in his empty room, thinking about how they could all stretch him, ruin him, how if not for the Force they could hold him down so easily.

He’s so wrapped up in it he doesn’t even hear the knock, doesn’t even hear the door slide open as he begs into his pillow to be fucked so good. He doesn’t notice until a glove lands gently on his thigh and he looks up into dark dark eyes and a firm face cut by a curving scar. 

He hasn’t seen Cody in a few days, he’s been busy doing something with the Kaminoans almost constantly, but there’s something somehow different in his eyes, something greedier. It makes him want to bare his neck.

So he does. He can’t even think why he wouldn’t. 

He cherishes the bruises he gets the next day, presses them when he thinks he’s alone.

_ He wants to be shared. He wants to be seen. _

He hasn’t considered it before, and it’s the first thought that really strikes him, at least until Cody locks a hand around his throat and another on his hip and shifts him and the world goes fuzzy. He doesn’t remember his concern afterwards, but the thought clings to him, curling around the corners of his mind as he drifts, surrounded by the slick and glorious sounds of his Commander ruining him. He’s been fucked by multiple at once before, it’s not new, but it was usually in the name of diplomacy, or in the middle of some mission-induced drunkenness. It’s never been a specific desire, but the more he thinks about it, the more it cultivates. Having Cody nearby, more regular and ready than any random hook-up has awoken something in him, something dusty and hungry. He’s so...needy, empty, clawing for more. Even enhanced stamina can’t quite keep up with a fuck-desperate Jedi, it seems. But if there were more, if Cody fucked him with the others there, if they took their turns fucking him, holding him down, exhausting him and turning his brains to mush, maybe it would be enough. 

By the time there is warmth spreading inside him, cooling across him, his own fingers pressed to his flat stomach and fantasizing about being bloated full with it he’s begging again, pleading for Cody to let the others see him, take care of him, use him.

Cody laughs, bites a mark so hard into his shoulder he thinks it might bleed. Of course, of course. The  _vod_ always share after all. 

_ He likes it better, like this. _

He does, he does, of course he does. He hates the death, the destruction, the pain. He hates to see the men he cares for fall. He loves it so much more when they are huddled around a fire and they pass him around like a prize, only barely pausing to pull their cocks out of their blacks before they sink into his heat, murmuring about how good he is for them, their beautiful Jedi whore. He feels exposed, open to their thrumming arousal, and he knows the thought is true as it weaves down into his core. If he could drop to his knees and suck off fucking  _ Dooku _ and it would end the war here and now he would, he wouldn’t even hesitate. 

Someone shoves their fingers in alongside the cock already buried inside him and he cums with a desperate keen, the strangest sensation of glass shattered to glittering particles somewhere deep in the recesses of his pleasured mind. 

He thinks he might pass out, just a little, at one point. He doesn’t think they stop passing him around. He comes back to himself in Cody’s arms, finally sharing in his nudity with others as plenty have stripped down for the night. Cody leans down and bites his neck, his chin, his ear, his mouth, murmuring filthy things until he’s shivering and crying and cumming limp and dry to a purring hungry praise, four fingers buried deep inside his sloppy hole, and the world fades out again.

_ He could find someone here, to take care of him. _

It’s harder, back on Coruscant. The 212th is stuck at the barracks and he at the Temple and he could feel all their hungry gazes on his back as he was forced to walk away from them, still a bit sore in the throat from when Waxer had pinned him down in a dark corner far too public in the _Negotiator_ corridors not hours before and fucked his mouth. They’d definitely been seen by a few passing  _ vod_, who’d smirked and muttered comments about how they were going to miss seeing their General on the surface, and he’d gotten hard and desperate over their amused looks. He’d gotten right to the edge on the rough tread of Waxer’s boot, and then he’d been abandoned, hard and whining, while the clone laughed and wandered away. 

He hadn’t gotten himself off in that little corner, as much as he wanted to, and now he was so hot he could feel it pushing under the collar of his robes, itching under his skin, purring in his bones. He needs to get something in him. He needs it now. 

He goes to his quarters, the one he still shares with Anakin, and barely manages to flick a distant thought to wonder where he is in the Galaxy before he scrambles to his room and the lube he’s begun keeping in his pack, working himself open desperately. He barely manages to keep quiet, so used to the clones who want to hear him, encourage his sounds. 

He dresses in his tunic, his pants, his belt, leaves his tabard and the rest as if he simply forgot, the tunic open to show just this side of too much skin. He feels exposed, like he does whenever the clones strip him and stay clothed, whenever they take him in places they could be caught, like if anyone looks they’ll see the hunger that claws inside him, the marks his lovers have left across his flesh. It feels good, so good, and so much stronger here, back home on Coruscant, those thoughts heavier somehow, sinking into the crevices of his desperate mind, wriggling through the cracks.

A Knight a few years younger than him and far bigger can’t seem to drag his eyes away when he wanders into the room he’s standing in. Their gazes meet, and it’s like they both know. He feels seen, and it feels wonderful.

The Knight takes him back to his own quarters and fucks him rough and beautiful, murmurs about how he can’t believe the illustrious Master Obi-Wan Kenobi was slinking around the Temple looking for a cock to fuck himself on like a common slut, admires all his marks and pulls his hair whenever he begs. He slaps his ass when he whimpers about being unable to cum after Waxer fucked his throat and tells him if that’s the case, he’s only getting to cum after he’s well and done with him. 

After, when he can barely stand, barely think, the Knight pets his head and tells him he’s welcome to come back anytime he needs, complete with wink.

_ Anakin looks amazing, when he’s angry. _

It’s not a new thought, not really, but the power of the heat in it is new, forcing him to lock it down before it can escape him into the air. It makes his knees want to give out, watching as Anakin seethes, stomping around their quarters with a fiery viciousness about something or another that gets lost under the buzz of his skin and the burn of his mind. He wants to reach out, to steal that fury with his mouth, to feel it on him as it scorches across his flesh. He wants Anakin to  _hurt_ him.

He chokes on a whimper, excuses himself. He actually manages to fumble his way out, trying to find somewhere quiet, somewhere alone. He manages to curl himself into a glorified closet in one of the deeper hallways, abandoned this late at night, flicks open his comm and calls desperately to Cody, hoping he can respond. It’s not as good but he  _needs_ , his fingers already scrambling at his belt, tearing at it, trying to get beneath. 

Cody barely takes a second to figure out what’s going on, what he’s babbling about, and he sounds so smug as he asks him what set him off this time, like he’s so desperate he can’t help himself and his Commander isn’t even surprised. Because it’s true. It’s so hard to think, to piece together his thoughts, but Cody firmly tells him to stop trying to get off like a stupid slut and tell him, a bark just the same as when he’s in the field. 

It’s the first time he’s ever been given a distinct order like that.

It’s the first time he cums in his pants from nothing but the desperation and a command, moaning desperately as he writhes. Cody chuckles when he realizes, croons about how he’s so much trouble sometimes, and the humiliation burns delightfully in his chest. He manages to explain, to talk about his last few weeks of need, the Knight and Anakin and the want. Cody tells him to find that Knight and get some cum in him, calm himself down like he needs. He promises that the next time they’re off-planet, the 212th won’t let him sit down for a week. He’ll get all he needs and more.

He gets up and goes to find the room.

It feels so nice to have someone tell him what to do.

_ He wants to be owned, wants to be ruined. _

He can’t stop thinking about it, about the fire. He wants it inside him, wants it to burn him. He wants to be held down and forced to stare into that vicious dark gaze. 

He doesn’t remember the feeling of worry. How can he? There’s so many other things on his mind.

He just wants to get off one more time, feel it again. His young Knight that’s kept him company is heading out tomorrow and he’s trapped here in hell for another two weeks, his thoughts crushing him, his clones caught up in training exercises and shift schedules and so many other things that he can’t even catch sight of them on the rare times he manages to make it to the barracks. He pushes his face a little harder into the counter, thinking about hard ship walls and strong hands and fire, and then there’s Anakin, staring at him as he fucks his fingers into his raw hole, his young Knight companion’s cum squelching filthily around the digits as he chases his own pleasure, unable to stop even as he opens his mouth and moans Anakin’s name, trying to think of anything to say past the  _need_. It’s Cody all over again except instead of just baring his neck he wants to  _submit_ , to hold himself open for Anakin and beg him to take.

Anakin’s face twists and he marches into his room, shuts the door. He feels his heart lurch and it hurts, it hurts, but there’s a crescendo happening inside him and he can’t stop, not these days. He closes his eyes and curls his fingers and thinks about teeth at his throat and fire and he shakes through his orgasm. He’s barely even aware of the sound of crunching metal, bleary as he tries to find the source. It’s Anakin, his door open again, his fist clutched tight. When he opens it, he thinks he recognizes the remnants of the comm he uses to call Padmé, when he thinks he’s being subtle. Was he calling her?

It doesn’t matter, not when Anakin marches across the room and puts his hand in his hand and  _yanks_ , demanding to know who he was thinking of when he came, full of someone else’s cum like some common whore. His face is twisted with jealousy and his whole body burns with the fire. He whimpers his answer, trembles and does what his body is begging for. 

He submits.

_ This is who he is. _

Everything doubles, with Anakin, triples maybe. It feels like he’s been dropped in front of a very large speaker, and now he can hear all his thoughts in stereo, the reverb shaking out all the things he’d tossed away.

Padmé laughs at him when he comes by to visit, teases that it took far too long, that she’s happy to share, and he smiles and nods and tries not to look like he’s full to bursting, stuffed with a toy Anakin bought him and demanded he wear today, huge and bulbous and dangerously good, cum sloshing inside his belly. He spends that entire day at the Senate with it in him, talks and stands and waits around, glad for the cut of his robes as he fights the urge to collapse and beg someone, anyone, to fuck him raw. 

His last meeting is with the Chancellor, who insists he sit in a comfortable chair that nonetheless presses at the toy inside him, politely discussing a recent set of laws that will affect the ranks and their separate opinions on that, though he’s barely able to fucking  _think,_ the old man finally,  _ finally_, announcing that he has another appointment coming and it’s been a delight talking. He nearly bolts out of the room. Anakin is waiting when he gets back, when he drops to his knees at his feet and begs. He looks so satisfied, so darkly amused, and it just makes him want to be louder, to show him what the clones always loved, hour of the day be damned.

So he does, and yet again he feels that distant sensation of crushed glass. It’s not one he pays attention to, not when Anakin’s doing his best to fuck him through the wall.

_ It doesn’t matter who’s fucking him, as long as they are. _

Anakin’s jealous, so jealous, when he gets back on the  _Negotiator_ and a few sets of hands almost immediately drag him away. They aren’t even subtle, but he can’t find himself to care. He can barely see Cody pulling Anakin aside before those hands shove him into a room and slam the door, voices purring about missing him dearly. He melts into their touches. 

Anakin stays on until they’re due to leave the next morning, he even joins in for awhile, so whatever Cody said worked apparently. 

His pack has the toys in it now, and when the others find it, they murmur to themselves, looking over at him with barely-hidden glee.

Cody holds up his promise. He doesn’t sit down for the entire first week they’re off the ground. He barely stands. 

Then they’re fighting again and afterwards they’re all so worked up with adrenaline and he does his best to help, watches their eyes light up as their Jedi takes orders with delight. 

And then, as he always does, he manages to get himself kidnapped. Except this time they manage to figure out pretty quickly why he’s whimpering as the whips hit him, still dripping from that very morning, still wet and needy and open, cum from a dozen soldiers sliding down his legs as they cut his pants away, leaving him with no way to hide. They rub their hands over the bruises left by so many fingertips, the red remnants of slaps, and they grin. 

By the time the 212th find him he’s so drugged out of his mind he doesn’t even know where he is. He knows he didn’t share any useful information, his mouth descends into begging and desperation quickly if not gagged and nothing has managed to stop that as far as he’s aware. He doesn’t remember most of it, just the rush of the drugs and the cool of the metal they caged his cock in after the first time he came all over someone at the dreadful things they called him, loving every single word. 

He could have sworn someone took holos, murmured about selling him, about how he’s good stock, but he’s not sure. 

Afterwards his Commander examines the cage and says, biting through his fury for something resembling a joke, that it’s a fantastic idea. 

He’s so happy that none of them treat him gentle, after. Plenty of them bite him until he bleeds, leave their marks all over him to cover up the ones left by others. Cody latches his teeth across the back of his neck and doesn’t let go, leaving a perfectly circular mark just above his collar, for everyone to see. 

They get him a cage within a week. They make sure Anakin gets a key, a consolation for not being able to kill any of his kidnappers himself.

_ This is all he is good for. _

It’s amazing that it takes as long as it does for him to end up how he does with the Zygerrian disaster, honestly. D’Nar pins him and he has to fight, he should fight, but the angle over the desk is so familiar and for a second there’s that urge, that heavy thing in his mind and he’s baring his throat and he barely manages to cut down the whine and turn the movement into a headbutt. His attacker still looks thoughtful, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue, before he’s distracted by the news of the bombs being deactivated. 

He still finds out though, when he just has to do his best and he is hurt and captured and Molec purrs as he recognizes him, yes from the holo but from others, brought to him by someone claiming to have seen some good stock that had since been lost. His captors laugh as they cup his ass and his body betrays him, melts instinctively into the touch despite the fury, despite the hate. 

He’s so happy he doesn’t wear his cage on missions.

The queen announces him as special, as a special kind of slave to be bought and broken, brings him out naked and wounded, bared for all to see. She offers him up to the man at her side to fuck and he whimpers when he recognizes the cut of his shoulders. 

They try to fight, but it’s useless. He’s bound up tight and taken away. They don’t even try to take away his ties to the Force, they just work Rex up and drop him on his cock, then tie the two of them together. It’s just as effective, his squirms going right to his useless whorish mind, leaving him panting and whining and clenching as Rex grunts and does his best not to bite into any of the little toothy scars left by his  _vod._

His jailers love him, love to use him where all can see, love to remind him about how useless he is. They make him beg for things on his hands and knees, things for the others around him, things for himself. They never make him cum, and it’s the one thing he’s desperately grateful for, ashamed for the first time about this hunger of his. 

Agruss sits back on his chair and has him fuck himself on his cock as Dooku calls to announce his upcoming execution and as he cums inside him, he feels that last delicate piece of glass inside himself be pulverized to dust. 

It’s a relief, to see Anakin after, to feel his rage pulse like an inferno, burning him until there’s nothing left but ash. The clones have already gripped him, grabbed his arms, shoulders, but they’re busy, so busy, and Anakin feels like standing on the surface of a sun. 

He starts talking the second they’re behind closed doors, about how they hurt him, how they never tried to make it feel good. They wanted him to hurt. He wanted to be with Anakin, with Cody, with anyone in the 212th who knew how to make him feel good. He wanted to be with Rex, the last person that made him cum, whether or not he wanted to. 

He’s pretty sure he cries. Anakin’s face goes dark and twisted then. He pushes him into the bed and takes hours taking him apart, reminding him of what he loves, of who he is, of what it means to beg and have it be  good.

_ It’s fine, as long as they treat him well. _

Cody orders a retreat, what feels like seconds after he’s taken the beast up the cliff. He wonders why, but it doesn’t matter, not for long. The shooting dies down, both sides pulling back to safety, a lull in the fight, and his Commander takes off his helmet, staring him down with dark unreadable eyes. He says something that makes no sense, says an order came through, but the 212th got an addendum. Says the order means something very wrong, and they’ve got measures to take, whether they want to or not. He barely even notices when the cuff snaps around his wrist, the wailing of pain just beginning to seep into his mind cut off with an abrupt click, deadening him to everything but the push to encourage him to his knees, there on the battlefield, just next to one of the walkers. He doesn’t even hesitate to fall there, to open his mouth for the dusty fingers, for the cock, for the ones that come after. They call him things, the things they called him before but other things as well, things he’s too far gone to understand, melting into their touches, chasing their heat like he’s so desperate for nowadays, hungering for how good they make him feel.

By the time Anakin comes to get him, there’s little he can manage but gurgle around his latest mouthful and push into his gentle hand, nuzzling the metal of his palm. He barely even notices the yellow of his eyes.

_ This is where he’s meant to be. _

The Emperor never touches him, of course. He’s just a lowly whore after all, why would such an esteemed man deign to touch something like him? He does enjoy ordering Anakin to leave him for use in diplomatic service though, on nights where Anakin is busy and none of the repurposed 212th can guard his bed, snarling protectively around any who draw near to their little traitor whore.

The cuff has long since been exchanged for a pretty collar, his robes for silky sheer things. He wants for nothing, and he’s more than happy to play his part, no matter how possessive the others can get. 

He’s more than happy to politely knock on those meeting doors, to go to the first hands that beckon him, to moan and whimper as they touch his piercings, his cage, his toy, as they pull him apart and push inside. It doesn’t matter who watches, even if sometimes it feels like parts of him are breaking away whenever the old man happens to be in the room, barely paying him any mind as Moffs and Generals and all manner of lawmakers and dictators share him and make him feel good. 

It doesn’t feel like that old glass sensation, it feels more like putty, taken apart and remolded, nothing left to hold him in place.

He doesn’t care.

He moans louder.

He belongs to Anakin, the Emperor’s right hand. He belongs to the 212th, men fighting at every level. He belongs to all these people, whenever they need.

_He is the Empire’s whore._

**Author's Note:**

> I had the thought about how if Palpatine was smart he would have started working on Obi-Wan slowly because he’s already shit at taking care of himself and exhaustion makes it hard to maintain yourself and your walls and I guarantee the flirting he does goes further in some regards and yeah, the Dark Side being used to slowly break Obi-Wan into being completely willing to just bend to the will of the people who will give him what he thinks he needs. And then I just wanted to expound a little on some possessive dom clones and Anakin’s complete lack of boundaries.


End file.
